


when love is found

by yolkinthejump



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale can sense love, Christmas Fluff, Crowley can't but his own love for Aziraphale is almost too much for him already so, First Dates, M/M, Stealth Crossover, sappy self-indulgence, sort of?? officially, they just got together and it's christmas time and love is in the air alright
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:40:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28538979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yolkinthejump/pseuds/yolkinthejump
Summary: Christmas: the season of the heart.Crowley and Aziraphale go to an open-air market during the holiday season, on what may well be their first official date. They are free, at last, to be out in the open with each other. Things get sappy.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 62





	when love is found

The instant Aziraphale plopped the earmuffs over his head—pale blue and fluffy, looking of a softness to rival the cloud curls they do not dare crease if they know what’s good for them—it was over for Crowley.

It being the argument that wasn’t, not really, with Crowley’s halfhearted protestations about the chill, the crowds, the commercialization—the two of them were going round and round, mostly out of habit, the motions of a dance centuries old. Tonight, Aziraphale wants to go out; Crowley wants to stay in (or so he says). 

Early December and Aziraphale is chasing that _special something_ in the air while Crowley acts at being a humbug, keeping up appearances because, demon, and he adores—yes, _adores_ , he can admit it, now—the way Aziraphale scrunches up his brows in a facade of frustration, sighing fondly, “Oh, you stubborn serpent,” and yet secure in knowing to the tips of his wings Crowley’s true nature. He knows it’s a show. He knows Crowley. _Crowley is known_ , and thought of fondly, and isn’t that a wonder? The tease has turned, softer now that they’ve acknowledged, acted on what they mean to one another.

Aziraphale dons his coat, a thicker, winter-y version of his standard attire, and slips on his tanned gloves even as Crowley circles round him wrapped up in a blanket, whingeing about. Aziraphale pouts at him. Promises him a roaring fire and the finest mulled wines and any other indulgences his cold blooded heart desires if only he’ll be _good_ , and share the season.

And then Aziraphale puts the earmuffs on, and he looks so blessed cozy, comfortable and at ease in a way Crowley would wade through holy water to keep, so eager he was almost giddy just at the prospect of the whole idea, the spiel of “Oh, the two of us at the market, a pair like any other celebrating the holiday; won’t you accompany me, be my escort for the evening?” nearly doing Crowley in to start with. Crowley feels his heart do a _flip_ in his chest, and before he can finish saying “Right, points, made,” he is snapping his fingers, all done up proper for a walk in a winter wonderland: long black peacoat, stocking cap with a pom and everything. The works. 

Aziraphale crowds in close, drapes a deep emerald vicuña scarf around his shoulders, tucking it secure at his neck with a soft, twinkling smile. 

“Thank you, my dear.”

“Mpf, ‘course,” he murmurs. His glasses drop into place, smooth and casual as anything and only a little bit a shield against the warmth creeping up his throat. 

“I appreciate all you do for me.”

“Mhm.”

“How you indulge me so.”

He says, with only a little catch in his voice, “As if I’d miss a chance to have you on my arm,” and waves a hand, gestures _after you_ as he opens the door to Aziraphale’s shop.

Aziraphale ducks his head and flicks his eyes up at him from under his lashes like some bashful youth at his coming out ball, and Crowley feels, as he always does, a satisfaction he likens to slotting the final piece of a puzzle into place. Something like pride at a thing well done. 

So. Arm-in-arm, they go. 

And the thing of it is, he has to admit that, now they’re here, it really is beautiful: Everything is a swirl of color, beads of light at each corner reflecting off the cloak of white that has settled over the park. It reminds him of space, with a twinge of nostalgia, and he takes Aziraphale’s hand in his own. Fresh snowfall has a quality of softness, making the world tender and fuzzy at the edges. Flurries cascade around them, just enough of a fall to help set the mood. Stepping onto the grounds is as stepping onto another plane, and fine, yes, Crowley feels almost festive. 

He has to admit, the ambiance is on point. Live music fades in as they walk closer to the greater hubbub. Holiday hits from all decades, light and subtle in tune and tempo and _instrumental_ , thank heavens, hells, whomever Crowley had to thank for the small mercy saving him from hearing “O Little Town of Bethlehem” without consideration to appropriate rationing of breath. 

In the distance, a redwood sits mirage-like in the center gazebo, wreathed in whites and reds and greens, topped in a brilliant star of blue. Phone screens dance in a swirl all around the base. A popular selfie spot. The crowds are out in reasonable force, thankfully, not quite packed in as much as they will be closer to the holiday. There are booths set up throughout the grounds, rows and rows selling trinkets and food and all the ugly sweaters one could desire. 

The path leading to the main area has been lined with arches, creating a tunnel of sorts. The dark of the sky is chased away by an absurd quantity of fairy lights, curling around each pillar and draping the high top in an arresting canopy of glittering bright. 

Aziraphale stops underneath, abruptly, pulling them to the side to let passersby through. His hair is lit like a halo, the lights shining in his wide eyes as he looks upward. 

“Angel?”

“They look like your stars, don’t you think so?” he says in answer. His face is flushed from the cold, a dusting of apple red.

Crowley feels his face heat to match. He shrugs.

There is such pride in Aziraphale’s voice. “ _I_ think so.” 

“A pale imitation,” Crowley manages, trying for prickly. He wants to shove his hands in his pockets, avert his gaze, but he won’t let go of Aziraphale’s hand, and he can’t bear to take his eyes off of him. The beatific smile on his angel’s face could power this whole extravagant display and then some.

Aziraphale brushes off Crowley’s attempt at deflection with, “To be sure.”

“Flatterer.”

“I speak only the Lord’s honest truth,” he sniffs, and Crowley snorts, “and I am also, hm, _trying_ to—to sweet-talk you, if you would let me. Your work among the stars is of an exquisite caliber of beauty all its own. It deserves praise.”

“Nhh,” is all Crowley manages. He bites back a _don’t._ It still stings, a bit. Kindness. Until he remembers: this is allowed. Aziraphale can say all the sweet things he wants; Crowley can even say them back, if he can ever get his head on right. No one is watching anymore. 

“Crowley?”

“Not used to…” he gestures with his free hand, words sticking. “It all, really.”

“Yes.”

Of course he understands. Crowley is known.

Aziraphale looks at him, eyes soft and infinitely tender. The line of his lips sits a gentle curve. There is a stillness, a frost hanging over the two of them, just begun to thaw. 

“Thank you,” Crowley says. He wants to say more. 

Later. He will. 

At that, Aziraphale squeezes his hand. The warmth of his grasp through their gloves is the perfect balm to the chill. In a blink he pops close and pecks Crowley lightly on the corner of his lips, a glancing ice-y press that leaves a tingling flare like frostbite. 

“Onward, love.” 

“Wh,” Crowley starts, brain needing a moment to process these casual touches, casual endearments, still so newly granted, but Aziraphale practically _bounces_ away with a giggle like he’s two bottles deep. The tension broken, the crunch of snow underfoot roars to life as he tugs them forward. 

“So much to see! Let’s enjoy ourselves, now!” 

Hand in hand, in front of Heaven and Hell and everyone in between.

They’ve been to this park hundreds of times, but never like this. Never with the greenery done up so, no, but more importantly never have they been to the park _together_. The emphasis on the word is key: decades, centuries they had stumbled into each other, both intentionally and not, and met purposefully, covertly and not, but never had they planned what could be described as an _outing_. Never have they walked the park as a unit. Never have they indulged in each other’s company without hesitation, and certainly never simply for the romance of the encounter itself. 

Before all the apocalypse business, before the inevitable collapse of their carefully manufactured distance, they would stroll side-by-side and yet always Crowley with his hands tucked away, Aziraphale with his own clasped tight. As if given the slightest chance their palms would press together, and the ruse would be up. 

And then, one evening at the Ritz, Aziraphale placed his hand on Crowley’s, finally, _finally_ , and gave them that chance. And Crowley turned his own hand in Aziraphale’s grasp. And their palms met. The two of them took one step towards the cliff they’d been standing at the precipice of for so long—longer than certain empires had been in power, and isn’t that a trip—and at last, they lept. 

Far more experienced, was Aziraphale, but neither of them had truly had what could be called a _relationship_ —or, at least, not one where they went on charming little Christmas dates to the park. It was all so ordinary. So human. 

An hour or two into their mundane, mortal, all together marvelous date at the park, the sights: seen, the hot cider: downed, the far-too-pale depictions of Jesus: scowled at—“I’m jus’ _s_ saying, angel, flipping that stand would be _more_ in line with this fuss _reason for the season_ than this, this Pagan appropriation, plants of questionable, euh, consent, and we both know it”—they come across a booth that makes Aziraphale light up impossibly brighter, walk with purpose over with a delighted, “Darling, look!”

It takes a moment to recover from _darling_ reverberating between his ears for his eyes to catch up with Aziraphale’s request. When they do, he groans.

“Really, Aziraphale?”

“Just look with me.”

Crowley weaves through the small crowd of antler headband-wearing tweens, all obnoxious laughter and awkward angles of adolescence. Their easy joy is infectious. Crowley doesn’t have to be an angel to feel it.

The lights surrounding the stand Aziraphale called him towards create an enticing glow, Crowley must admit. Hanging on the backboard, piled in bins on the tables, there appear to be ornaments for hanging on one’s tree covering every available surface. 

As Aziraphale ventures deeper into the display, Crowley follows. All ornaments are clearly crafted by hand, shaped in clay or carved in wood. They represent all manner of animals associated with the season (reindeer, rabbits), and some that are not (some kind of dinosaur; Crowley lost interest in that hoax after a while), food stuffs from candy canes to… avocados, paw prints of varying sizes for family pets, and of course the classics: first Christmases. Most of them double as photo frames. Baby’s First Christmas in a red and white border made to look like a present, complete with bow. A frame of plain white with First Christmas as Mr. & Mrs. in calligraphy, the _C_ adorned with wedding rings entwined. First Christmas as Mommy & Daddy. His & Hers ornaments linked with red ribbon. A package deal. 

With a roll of his eyes, the inventory shuffles to bring Mommies, Daddies (singular and plural), Mr. & Mr., Mrs. & Mrs., and His & His and Hers & Hers sets to the forefront.

Next to him, Aziraphale glances up from his browsing, and tuts at him with clear adoration, “Aw, Cr _o_ w—”

“Mischief. I’m doing mischief.”

“Oh, yes, you absolute menace.”

“Shut up,” Crowley says, with little bite. Then, again: “ _Really_? We don’t even have a tree.”

“We’ll get one.” Aziraphale picks up an ornament proclaiming Our First Christmas in flowing lettering carved deep into delicate birchwood, shaped into a rounded wreath with painted garland edging. Overall it’s the most innocuous of the bunch. “A token to commemorate the occasion wouldn’t be amiss, would it?”

“Little late for it. First Christmas has come and gone; you remember.”

Aziraphale looks at him sideways, pursing his lips. “This is _our_ first Christmas, you contrary thing. I think it would be a lovely keepsake. You can take a, mm, self-portrait photograph with your cellular phone.”

“Selfie.”

“Oh, if we’re to use the lingo, yes. A _selfie_.” The word sounds on his tongue like he’s eaten something unpleasant. Crowley barks a laugh.

Which gets the attention of the person apparently in charge of the booth, a young woman in her twenties wearing a festive sweater and a glittery scarf nearly the size of her entire torso. She begins to shuffle over to them; Crowley cuts her off, waving her away with a “We’re just looking!”

She nods, smiling with her eyes (the only part of her face visible). “Let me know if I can answer any questions.” 

“Uh huh.”

Interaction averted, Crowley comes up at Aziraphale’s side. After a moment of hesitation, he lets a hand rest at his hip, arm crossed across his back. Holding him. 

“You want a tree?” Crowley asks. His voice comes out quiet, almost a whisper. 

Aziraphale leans into his touch. “Mm, I think it might be…” he searches, “cozy.”

“You want to, what, go to a farm? Play lumberjack, pick one out ourselves?” 

“Why, well, yes. I just might.” 

Alright, not expecting that answer. Yet Aziraphale sounds almost eager, sanguine at the prospect of doing things the human way; Crowley fully expected a scoff. 

“That’ll be a sight.” He ducks his head closer, barely resists burying his smile against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Fussy thing like you, ehh, I’d wager you take one step into the muck of the field with those fancy shoes of yours and we’re putting in a miracle for pre-strung plastic.”

“I am perfectly capable of dressing appropriately.”

“All of history to the contrary.”

“Mm, I would not be throwing stones if I were you.”

“Y’know what, I’m going to enjoy rescuing you from nature.”

“You won’t last five minutes.”

“Dirt, angel. Dirt under your fingernails.” 

Crowley kneads into Aziraphale’s side for emphasis. Relishes the playful squirm that results, as Aziraphale says, in a hush, “I’ll wear gloves,” and then, with a huff of a laugh, “You fiend, that tickles, stop it!”

“Shan’t.”

“You’re just—trying to distract me—”

And just like that Crowley steps back, playful bop in his step, hands up. All things considered—the season, the outing, the domesticity of buying a bloody _Christmas tree,_ of all things, compounded by Aziraphale’s eyes doing that crinkling thing at the corners—he feels a bit manic. There’s an itch under his skin. He’s always been twitchy on his best days, yeah, he knows, but this business has him gone a bit mad. Not made for it, him. Kindness. Happiness. Love, requited. 

“Oh, come back here,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley goes to him, like submitting to gravity. Never could resist the allure of Aziraphale’s side, even when he knew he should want to. 

He wiggles his fingers at him.

“Crowley.”

“Can’t help it.”

“Do,” Aziraphale says, affectionately.

This close, Crowley can see clearly the flush on his cheeks from the chill, from the laughter. His eyes are all glittering in the light; he looks at peace, here, with him, holding onto this imperfect little human trinket like it’s something precious. 

“Really, though, dear…”

“Hn?”

Crowley shivers at a breeze and bends back close, wanting to close his eyes, bury his face in Aziraphale’s neck, burrow for warmth in his lamb soft hair. Breathe him in.

Very probably sensing him drifting again, Aziraphale nudges him with an elbow. “Crowley. Do you think we could have a tree? It would certainly add some much needed color to your flat.”

“You—nk, y-want it at mine?”

“Oh, I mean… Y-yes. If, that is, if you’re amenable to the arrangement. There’s space, and you have that fireplace, now, _very_ picturesque, and I would like to,” Crowley watches the bob of his throat as he swallows, “to spend more time there. It really is a beautiful property, and if it were given some, hum, more personal touches…” 

“Is it the silk sheets?” Crowley teases. Voice rough. He tells himself the burning in his eyes is the chill. 

“It is not _only_ the silk sheets. Answer my question, you.”

If Aziraphale wants a tree, Crowley will get him a tree. He pictures it, in all its Hallmark glory: their own little slice of the holiday. Tangled cords and bickering about what goes where. The two of them, sharing a blanket by the hearth, mugs in hand. Light-dappled smiles and stocking feet. 

It would not be about the birth of Christ. Crowley wouldn’t be against throwing the lad a party, really—they got on well. But it isn’t as if he could attend, and the time is all off for that, no matter the general misguided consensus. Either way, plenty of families are into the secular celebration these days. All about that mushy togetherness, domestic harmony, chestnuts roasting, good will towards your fellow man lark. The tree, stolen from the Celts, adds a fun bit of technical blasphemy. Plus, presents. 

He does love giving Aziraphale presents. 

“Um—”

“I love your fancy shoes,” he says, instead, getting all his thoughts a bit twisted on his tongue before tripping over himself in a rush to amend: “We can do cozy. I’m good with cozy,” and then, bolder, “Yes, Aziraphale, yes is what I mean. Let’s get a tree. Let’s have a Christmas.”

Aziraphale smiles at him so bright as to beat the whole damn park display. 

“It’ll be wonderful, Crowley. Just wonderful.”

“No doubt, angel.”

Circling him, Crowley comes up and drops his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder. He winds his arms around the front of him in a squeeze, fingers not quite touching, resting on the dip of his hips. He at last gives in, hides his face in the back of his neck. The feathery scarf, the whorls of hair brushing against Crowley’s face; the sweet, clean scent of his cologne, cedarwood and clary sage and ever-present crisp, fresh rainfall. 

Crowley wants to get him home. He’s shared Aziraphale with the outside world enough for today. They could go to his place, or the bookshop; start the celebration early. Lay Aziraphale in front of a fire, have him feel a fraction of the heart-soaring, well, _everything_ , that he brings out in Crowley. 

Maybe he is about to say so, or a more family friendly approximation, anyway, about to instigate a grab-and-go operation with this ornament, get them both home right quick, when everything comes to a halt with a youthful shriek and the thumping of snowshoes— 

“Daddy, Daddy! Come see these, they’re—”

And suddenly there’s a _child_. 

He slips over his own limbs in the way of children, carried away by momentum and set to barrel right into Aziraphale and Crowley, and he has a cup of hot cocoa, Crowley can see it falling— 

In a blink the drink is in his hand. 

Likely before he even registers the interruption Aziraphale is stepping out of his embrace and snapping his fingers, and the child falls like a puppet with his strings cut, blessed inches from knocking his head on the table; he goes down right there in the snow, gangly legs under him in a way that makes Crowley wince. Not broken, but he surely would be sore, maybe even sprained, if Aziraphale wasn’t seconds from putting him to rights. A hard fall is preferable and an easy fix compared to head trauma. 

He’s maybe eight years old at the most, a lump of bright purple puffy jacket and jeans with scuffed knees. Crowley wants to adjust his cap, a tassel stocking with little bear ears made lopsided by his tumble. Always did have a soft spot for kids. 

Aziraphale places the ornament on the table and bends just as his little freckled face starts to scrunch, a high whimper forcing its way out between his clenched teeth. He hovers a hand over the child’s knees, back, shoulders, “Oh, _shh,_ no need to fret. You must be careful, there’s a good lad,” he’s saying, fussing over him as he helps him to stand. 

The child sniffles pitifully.

“Good as new, there, easy does it.” 

There is a new voice, rough, gentled by concern: “Wren!” 

A man jogs up to them, heavy boots leaving tracks in his wake. He looks worn at the edges, old denim and army jacket, eyes wide, barely sparing them a glance with a “My bad, guys,” and Crowley thinks, _ah, American_ as he turns to the child—Wren—and says in a rush, “I—kid—you can’t just run off—” He pulls him to his side. Their eyes meet as he looks down at him. “You okay?”

Wren nods. “I got excited,” he says, and it sounds like a recitation, like something similar has happened before. 

“ _Yeah_.”

“Not awesome.”

“Not awesome. Right. Gonna get you a leash…” he says under his breath. The man’s hands go to Wren’s shoulders, and though stern there is clear affection in the gentle way he handles the boy, shifts him to face them. “Say thanks to the nice men.”

“Th’nk you.”

“Yes, thank you,” his father repeats. Wren raises his hands to cover his father’s, swaying a little. 

“No harm done.” Aziraphale says. 

“Mind your dad, kid. That was a close one,” Crowley says. They have no idea. The boy shifts under Crowley’s gaze; the sunglasses, and the sharpness of his tone, may be unnerving. Not what he wants.

“So I keep sayin’,” says the father. “Kids.”

“Is he your only?”

“Brother in school,” he says; a clear point of pride, “and a sister. Older. He listens to _her,_ ” he jostles Wren lightly, teasing. The boy smiles mischievously, but he murmurs “‘rry, sorry.”

“Uh,” Crowley starts. “Hey. Your drink.”

Wren’s grip tightens on his father. 

Crowley holds out the cup to him. After a moment and a nudge from his father, he takes it, offering another small thanks. The large container barely fits his mittened hands. 

The man tips his head in thanks. 

“Daddy,” Wren starts, looking up. “I wanna look at the…”

“We gotta,” the man says, at the same time, cocks his thumb back. There’s something halting in the movement. A forced casual. Like he’s not used to small talk. Crowley sympathizes. To Wren he says, “We gotta go. We’re gonna be late, Wren, they’re waitin’.”

Crowley bounces on his heels. “Don’t want that!” 

“You and your family have a wonderful holiday, young man,” Aziraphale says, smiling his most angelic, Peace Be With You smile. 

The man’s lips curve wryly—his age lies in the range of early-mid-40s; well outside ‘young man’ classification by mortal standards—but he only says, “Uh, yeah. You too,” before he turns Wren bodily by his shoulders and guides him out of the booth. 

“Can we come back?” Wren asks as they go. “We need a present, for Charlie, and Claire, and...” There are other names mumbled, slurred together as is the way of children, “and I wan’ show Aba…” he continues, voice fading. 

“No runnin’ off again, we’ll see.”

“O _kay_.”

Crowley can just make out his father’s sigh. “Gimme,” he says, then, taking hold of Wren’s drink and in one smooth show of strength hoisting him over his shoulder. One hand holding the cup, one hand keeping his son steady.

Wren’s squeals of delight echo as they walk off. 

“For the record,” Crowley says under his breath, leaning close, “ _he_ looked a lumberjack type.”

Aziraphale huffs. 

There is a warmth in Crowley’s chest. A fuzzy feeling. The infernal in him can sense hardship, and he knows those two have seen their share. But they have each other. Isn’t that something. Moments like this he doesn’t need to feel love like angels do, doesn’t need to be of the Divine to find peace in these moments all the same. 

“That was nice of you, I must say.”

Broken out of his sappy musing, Crowley is about to agree on instinct, not really understanding what, exactly, was particularly nice about that interaction. Or saying the man looked like a lumberjack. (He really did. Plaid and all). Aziraphale did the actual saving of the kid. But there is something cheeky in his voice that makes him turn. 

At Crowley’s look, Aziraphale elaborates: “The child’s beverage. Don’t think I didn’t notice the smaller size it was when he dropped it, dear.”

“Oh.”

“Quite.”

“Ehh. Was not?” he tries. Too late. Alright, yes, he’d given the kid an upgrade. 

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. So blessed fond. 

“Eugh, _nice_ is a strong, I mean, wasn’t—No, hmj, listen,” he says, but his heart’s not in it, and Aziraphale clearly is trying not to laugh at him. Not very hard, but he’s trying, holding a hand delicately to his lips to hide his smile. “Listen. Sugar rush.”

“Oh, please.”

“S’gonna be a nightmare, later.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale sounds even more fond, somehow. 

“Bouncing off the walls… Though…” he adds, like he’s sharing a secret. Switching tactics. Chasing the high that comes along with Aziraphale’s approval. What else? How can he sweeten the pot? With a grin, he thinks of just the thing: “His da’s about to get a call they’ve been upgraded to the fanciest digs available in the hotel they’re at; least the walls’ll be his own room.”

Aziraphale claps his hands, once, clasps them to his heart. “Oh!” 

“You like that?”

“What a lovely gesture.”

“An inconvenience, is what it is.”

A pleased hum is all Aziraphale has to say to that nonsense.

Tucked away in the ether, Crowley’s wings puff up some. Aziraphale being so delighted with his Good Deeds still makes him a touch nauseous, to be honest, but in an overall more butterfly-in-the-gut pleasurable kind of way now than a facing-hell’s-retribution, going-to-get-his-angel-smote fear kind of way. It makes his face heat. He wants to hide. He wants to preen. It’s complicated. 

Aziraphale is looking at him like he’s a Christmas spirit of somesuch. 

“Nice really does it for you, huh?” 

“If we were alone, you’d be more than welcome to have me up against a wall,” Aziraphale whispers. “Old time’s sake.”

“Ngh.” 

Crowley snatches up the Our First Christmas ornament—grabs a His & His set for good measure on impulse, feeling bold—shivering at Aziraphale’s tittering laugh as he marches over to pay. 

(As the woman rings up the set she says, clearly pleased, “I didn’t know we had any of those!”)

As they take their leave of the booth, Crowley tucks the small bag with his purchases into his inside coat pocket, and Aziraphale says, picking up their earlier exchange, “I’m sure his fathers will appreciate the privacy of their own room, as well.”

This whips his head around.

“Didn’t you hear?” Aziraphale asks, and at Crowley’s headtilt: “ _Aba_.” 

Oh. No, that didn’t even register; not a word you hear much anymore. Guess the boy has a set of his own. 

Aziraphale continues, hand to his heart again, “The warmth that blossomed in that man just at the mention of his husband, _oh_ , Crowley.”

“ _Aww_.”

For that, Aziraphale rolls his eyes at him. 

“Good for them,” Crowley amends, sincere. “Truly. It’s just I’m getting flashbacks, angel. All the folks here, this whole crowd, and you manage to run into—or he manages to run into us—” He waves a hand vaguely. “You really do have some sort of…”

“Homosexual radar?”

Crowley snorts.

“A coincidence, I’m sure,” Aziraphale offers. “But a welcome one.” 

He takes Crowley’s hand in his, tugs him forward, towards the exit. 

They walk in silence for moments. Just enjoying the atmosphere. The happy exclamations and embraces of friends and families enjoying themselves. The romance of the season. 

“Moths! Like moths to a flame.”

“What?”

“Little winged things, attracted to light. You’re the flame. Patron saint of Dorothy.”

“Crowley!” His startled laugh rings like a bell. “Watch your tongue. Wicked blasphemer.” 

Crowley swings Aziraphale’s arm, playful. “S’true. I remember what you’d get up to, back in the day, all sort of s _ss_ alacious… ness. Inverts a’plenty. Plus, you know,” he grins, _wicked, you say_ , sidelong at Aziraphale. “Look at me.”

In a passing breath Aziraphale has stepped close. Taken both his hands in his.

“Look at you,” he repeats, low.

He leans in to press a kiss to the side of Crowley’s face. He does not step away. Crowley can feel the curve of his lips against his jaw. The two of them stand together, stopped right in the middle of the main throughway. 

The annoyed grumblings of a group as they have to move around them to pass are music to Crowley’s ears. 

“Angel—” 

“Mm?” There is a look in his gaze a bit like a spotlight; opening night, and Crowley without any of his lines. 

With a shrug of his shoulder, Crowley hides them. 

Aziraphale pulls back, only slightly, to look at him, meet his eyes piercing through his dark glasses. Crowley can see himself in Aziraphale’s eyes. Speckles of light reflect back at him. He looks concerned. There is a troubled line between his brows. 

“Oh,” Crowley says, with a frown. “I’ve spoilt it, haven’t I?”

“No, no,” he hushes him, “it’s only… Well, there’s no need for that.”

“Figured you’d want…”

No matter that they’re not on Heaven or Hell’s watchlist anymore, and could in fact go full on in public and only get dinged by mortals for indecency, affection in public still carries a bent of danger. Not long ago even being seen together was a risk. Hells below, it’s an adjustment. 

“Thank you for the consideration, dearheart, but not at all.”

Crowley’s hands reflexively clench at the endearment. Aziraphale strokes a thumb over his knuckles in a soothe. He takes a breath. Crowley feels his cloaking mirage fade away to Aziraphale’s grace. 

“For—oh, Crowley, for all of history, for-for that young man, certainly for myself, and for _you_ I want nothing more than to freely embrace you, to, mm, kiss you,” he pauses, his pretty pink tongue peeking out to wet his lips, “out in the open.” 

He brings both his hands up to Crowley’s face, holds him. The soft leather against the chill feels smooth as fire. The moment hangs; his eyes burn with something like Holy conviction, and something wholly physical, concrete, years upon years of living, loving as a human, as a man. The toll it takes, a celestial being made to love, being told your way of love is profane. 

Dropping his hands to Aziraphale’s hips, Crowley grips at his coat.

Right in the open, he kisses him. Sighing into each other, a meeting of lips where anyone can see. Crowley feels a snowflake fall on his nose, shivers down to his toes as the heat of their bodies melts away the chill. Aziraphale’s hands brush delicately at his jaw, tug him even closer. Crowley traces along his hips, up his back, to rest his palms on his shoulders. He feels the distant flutter of wings trill along his fingertips.

When he pulls away Aziraphale is saying, in a voice tenuous, “I was so fearful, for so, so long, Crowley—” 

And Crowley crowds closer. Nudges them to the side with a press of his temple. 

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says against his lips. 

“Wh—why’re,” Crowley makes a noise, a confused, delicate wondering. What for? 

Azirpahale appears to steel himself. He pulls himself away from Crowley to look at him, holding his head firm in his grasp when Crowley makes to duck away. 

“I am sorry for all the moments I was not holding you. I could not fathom… having this. That it would ever be safe to do so. I was such a coward and now you, in my arms, oh, there is much to experience, unfathomable not long ago, much to do with you, to share with you, to show you, I can hardly contain myself most days. I wanted to do this, this outing, with you because we _can_ . Every little mundane activity is _ours_ to undertake; I want to kiss you in the daylight, on a busy street, in the rain, in the snow, on the beach; I want to love you in the _open_ , because I _can_. I would have you by my side always, Crowley, walk with you anywhere, let all know how blessed I am to call you mine.”

Something like a whimper drags itself from Crowley’s chest. When he tries to clear his throat, it comes out a squeak. 

“We belong here the same as any. What a marvel! The _love_ here! The air is thick with it. And to share it, with you—there is such an abundance… Ohh, I wish you could feel it.” Aziraphale gives a full body wiggle, a touch of mania in his eyes. 

_Don’t need to. I don’t need to, not with you with me. I don’t miss Her grace most days, I really don’t, not with you; with you I can almost feel it, but it’s_ better _with you. It’s real. Can’t imagine any feeling greater than the one I hold for you,_ is what Crowley tries to say. What he says instead is,

“Are you _high_?”

Aziraphale’s laugh rings out. The most unrestrained, joyous sound. 

“Is it all that? This tourist trap?” Crowley asks. 

A thumb glances over his cheek. Aziraphale’s eyes are damp, deep with emotion. “Homemade gifts,” he says, bringing a hand to touch Crowley’s chest delicately, palm just over where the ornaments are kept, “infused with love. Yes, there is frustration and bitterness and, and seasonal squabbles but overwhelmingly people are here to share in their love of one another. Love overwhelms all else here; you and I are just another contribution to that feeling, no different from any other pair of lovers out to enjoy the market. Isn’t that splendid? Isn’t that the most remarkable thing?”

Crowley blinks, takes a shuddering breath. He feels a tear fall. Damn. 

“So, yes, I want to kiss you without any tricks. No illusions, no hiding. I want them to see. I want our love to be a _part_ of this. I want to shout it to people whom it is absolutely no business of theirs, just to _say it_ —” 

Enough. Crowley growls; a shattered, anguished thing, and he pulls Aziraphale to him again. Nothing to apologize for. Not ever. _I understand_ , he tries to say. It comes out in the clench of his fingers, _it’s alright, love, it’s alright_ he says in the soft moan at their joining, the fierce way he holds him, the way he opens himself to him, unafraid. 

Aziraphale breaks away with a gasp, “You, there, lad—” 

A trio of university blokes freezes, obviously having been trying to pass them by without disturbing such an intimately charged moment. 

“I love this man!” 

He bounces full on after he says it. Does not look away from Crowley. Eyes wide, eyebrows raised cheekily. Impish glee writ all over his face. 

The group blinks, stares at them.

Crowley stares right back. “We’re in love,” he creaks, “uh. Yes.”

“Er.”

“Alright.”

“Congrats, mate,” one of them offers.

“ _Th_ ank you,” Crowley says. The word catches. 

“Happy Christmas!”

They run off, giggling. 

A squeeze at his jaw brings his eyes back to Aziraphale.

“I love you.”

Crowley swallows, with effort. “I love _you_.”

They embrace. Crowley can feel Aziraphale’s smile curve. The warmth of his body, the plush softness of him—a sweeter soothe Crowley has never known. The weight of him as he leans into Crowley’s arms. 

“That was… Tonight, uh,” Crowley fumbles. Aziraphale waits, patiently. His breath beats a steady warmth at Crowley’s cheek. “This was good. Better’n good, I. Nghf, I wanted to come. You should know that.”

“I know.” Voice impossibly soft. 

“I’ll go anywhere with you, you know that, yeah? Anywhere you want to go; if you’re there, I’m there.”

Now, Aziraphale leans back. Still holds onto his hands. The coiled strength of him, the tactile grip of his fingers, serves to ground Crowley. 

“I know,” he repeats, with weight, “and I, you.” 

And he kisses Crowley, teasing at the seam of his lips with his tongue. Plush and firm and _cold_ because they’re out here, on a _date_ , for _Christmas_ , standing in the open while snow falls all around them. It should make Crowley cringe, the pretty picture they make. A dreadful holiday special. Instead, he is made all—gooey, inside. Sentimental. Some cosmic joke, a demon going soft, squishy and lovesick for kisses at Christmas. 

He wants to keep this moment forever. Until the stars go out. 

“Take me to bed,” Aziraphale murmurs as he pulls away. Eyes heavy. 

“Hng—nnn, ethics,” Crowley stutters, reflexively teasing, “if you’re under the influence—wa _hey_!” 

He bit him on his chin! Scamp. 

“Crowley.”

“Yes?” 

The hand at his jaw flows to his neck, under his scarf. Smooth leather against his bare skin. Crowley’s hands have found their way up to cup those earmuffs of his—playing at pulling Aziraphale away but only serving to hold him close—and they’re just as soft as they look. Like fine wool. And he looks deceivingly darling in them, still. Certainly doesn’t look like a chap who would bite a fellow on his chin. Who would look at a lover with such carnality as to make the snake of Eden himself (the lover!) shift uncomfortably, stammer and hunch and curse everyone ever involved in the making of _skinny jeans_. 

Crowley considers keeping up the tease, and is countered right quick by the something wild in Aziraphale’s eyes. Best to cut to the chase. He sighs like he’s making a great compromise, but he can’t hide the tremble in his voice. He learns into the hand against his throat, Aziraphale grip tightening minutely. “Mine or yours?”

“Oh, yours,” Aziraphale says, his own voice not unaffected, “it’s a silk sheet kind of night, I think.” 

With a nod, Crowley extends an elbow. Aziraphale lays his hand gently in its bend. 

First official date a success, he’d say. Well done. 

Next up… well, next up is silk sheets.

Next _next_ up is tree shopping, apparently, and with that comes the silly notion of Aziraphale done up with say, buffalo plaid, yes, but also the more Crowley thinks on it, head fizzing like shook-up soda as they walk together out of the park, the more Crowley comes around to the idea: Aziraphale roughing it, trudging through snow to find the perfect, _their_ perfect, Christmas tree. Aziraphale with worn gloves dirtied by earth sifted through to provide for them. A smudge might get to his cheek, his forehead, smeared by sweat. Maybe, just maybe, he would wield an axe. Show off some of that Principality hardiness always sitting at the core of him, coiled tight. 

Maybe it’ll be cold enough he’ll wear the earmuffs again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> ❄️🎄❄️💞❄️
> 
> Title from _Muppets Christmas Carol_ , which I've decided just now is Crowley's favorite Christmas film.


End file.
